


You and Me of the 10,000 Wars

by azephirin



Category: Supernatural, X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: 1000-3000 words, 1000-5000 Words, Atlanta, Books, Breakfast, Crossover, Cunnilingus, E-mail, F/M, Food, Future Fic, Loss of Virginity, One Night Stand, South
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-29
Updated: 2010-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azephirin/pseuds/azephirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>A bed to be made and a bed to lie in...</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	You and Me of the 10,000 Wars

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer**: [clears throat] Everything _Supernatural_-related is the intellectual property of Eric Kripke, Warner Bros. Television, and a bunch of other people who are not me. Marie and the rest of the X-Men gang are the property of Marvel Comics. Title and summary from "[You and Me of the 10,000 Wars](http://www.mtv.com/lyrics/indigo_girls/you_and_me_of_the_10_000_wars/508809/lyrics.jhtml)," by the Indigo Girls. None of this belongs to me, and I surely am not making any money from it.  
> **Author's note**: Written for [](http://astrothsknot.livejournal.com/profile)[**astrothsknot**](http://astrothsknot.livejournal.com/)'s prompt "Write a drabble based on an icon you don't use often." I picked [this one](http://p-userpic.livejournal.com/59844195/8530210) (by [](http://worblehat.livejournal.com/profile)[**worblehat**](http://worblehat.livejournal.com/)), and 2700 words later I had my drabble. *headdesk* This may be considered part of my apparent ongoing attempts to deflower Rogue with badasses from other [fandoms](http://archiveofourown.org/works/50498).

She picks Atlanta. The Southern in the city feels like home, but it's big enough, crowded enough, to be close enough to what she knew in the Northeast. Maybe she won't stay forever, but it's a decent place to live for now.

She ends up in an old house (well, old for this area, anyway: built in the 1920s) in East Atlanta, living with three other girls (they seem so young, she can't bring herself to call them women even though they're her age), working as a clerk in the mayor's office. The pay isn't great, but it isn't terrible; the benefits are good; the hours are nine to five; and the only risk to her life comes from attempting to cross Memorial Drive in rush-hour traffic.

East Atlanta is full of bars, friendly and hip, the sort where trucker hats are worn—but only by boys her age (she can't call them men, they seem so young) who have jobs as journalists, DJs, graphic designers. Marie doesn't venture into them at first—she still finds herself avoiding crowded places, a now-comfortable habit of many years—but her roommates, laughing and cheerful, don't take no for an answer:_ Come on, Marie, just a couple of beers, it'll be fun, wear your new outfit._

There's no reason, really, not to go.

She sees him because his friend sees them—two nice-looking flannel-clad men (_men_, Marie thinks—it's accurate here), the shorter, prettier of the two eyeing the table of dressed, perfumed, off-for-the-weekend girls. The taller man, with the broader shoulders and longer hair, doesn't seem to notice them, but his friend certainly does, and Marie hears her roommate Emily say, "Dibs on the shorter, hotter one. Even if they do look like they just time-travelled out of the nineties."

Shorter And Hotter soon approaches, of course, with Taller in tow and a round of drinks for all of them forthcoming. Shorter And Hotter is Dean, and Taller is Sam, and they're location scouts for Paramount, although Sam makes a face when Dean says it.

Emily immediately offers to show them around—_I grew up here, know this city like the back of my hand, anything you need to find, I can find it for you_—and Dean gives her a blazing smile but doesn't, Marie notices, directly take her up on it. He proceeds to hold court with Emily, Kathryn, and Kerry, leaving Sam for Marie.

Which is just fine.

+||+||+

 

A while later, Kerry is enthusing about another bar a few blocks from here, and Dean says, "Well, what do you think, ladies? Should we get out of here?" And they all agree, all three of them, like they're suddenly not worried that there might not be enough of Dean to go around.

Marie's enjoying her conversation with Sam—he's soft-spoken and wryly funny, and it turns out they like a lot of the same books and music—but she really doesn't feel like going to another bar. She's still relearning this whole social-interaction thing, and one loud, crowded place is her per-evening limit at the moment.

Dean and Marie's roommates decide to go to the next bar. Sam and Marie decide to stay where they are.

They don't stay very long.

The house is quiet, dark, when they return, and Emily's cat, Gracie, greets them at the door. She rubs up against Sam's ankles—she's always looking for new people to pet her—and purrs when he scratches her under the chin.

"You have a new friend," Marie says, amused. She adds, because she thinks it's what you're supposed to do, "Do you want something to drink? Coffee or a Coke or whatever? I think there's beer in the fridge, but it's Kerry's, which probably means that it's PBR, and eew. Um, sorry. I mean, if you like PBR, that's fine."

Sam laughs. "Just a Coke is good. I don't think I'm hip enough to drink PBR."

Marie goes into the kitchen and busies herself with glasses and ice. "Where I grew up, the good old boys drank PBR. I'm not sure when it became such a hipster thing."

"When neither of us were looking," Sam says.

It's strangely comfortable, between them. It's not long before the sweating glasses of Coke are set to the side, before Marie has taken Sam upstairs and shown him her room.

+||+||+

 

He's so much bigger than she is—the breadth of his shoulders, the muscles in his arms, the length and power of his legs, his sheer height—and maybe it's for that reason that he's so careful. He wants to be in charge, though, and that's just fine with her, because she has no idea what she's doing. He undresses her slowly, kissing her as he does: not just her mouth but her throat, her ears, her nipples when they're bared.

No one has seen her naked since her parents when she was a very small child—no one since she's been grown, been changed, been changed back—and she's struck with a sudden shyness, wanting to curl in on herself because no one has ever looked at her like this before. She's been covered up for years, and something about her condition made her untouchable not only literally but figuratively, too, as though the desire itself, the gaze, was itself a form of contact.

He twines his fingers in her hair and urges her back up so that she's sitting. She stands and pushes his flannel outer shirt off his shoulders, then pulls up the plain T-shirt underneath. He raises his arms, and it's off and they're even. His skin is darker than she'd have expected, a light cinnamon color, and she explores his chest and abdomen with her fingers, enjoying his pleased sigh.

The rest of their clothes come off, too, and he lays kisses on her belly, her hips, the insides of her thighs, then pushes her onto her back, spreads her legs with gentle but unyielding hands, and kneels in front of her to lick at where only she has ever touched. She sits up—she knows that people do this, but he doesn't have to, is he sure he wants to...? He laughs a little and urges her back down with one big hand on her belly, then readdresses himself to her cunt and clit.

Her hands inevitably, inexorably, unconsciously find his hair. She doesn't want to pull, but, God, it feels so good. His lips are soft on her secret parts, but untiring, insistent, and it's after only a few flicks of his tongue that she's coming, praying that none of her roommates have come home at any point because she's crying out, uncontrolled and unrestrained.

Then his unknowing fingers hit her barrier—the one that's still there after so many years—and he looks at her in shock. "Wait—I mean—you're—you've never—?"

It's the wrong time to smile, but three minutes ago he had his mouth in places she was raised to consider unspeakably obscene, and now this man of the world is nearly speechless over the fact that she's still a virgin.

"Would _you_ admit to it at my age?" she asks.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," he says. "It's just— I would have thought— You're beautiful. Smart. Are guys really that stupid?"

"It's a long story," she says. "But it's more about me than any man."

He sits back on his knees, one hand warm on her hip. "We don't have to— I mean. It should be a gift. To somebody."

"It is," Marie says. "To me." She sits up, leans forward, and puts her hands on either side of his face. "So let's."

His body may be breathtaking, but when he smiles, diffident but brilliant, it's as though there's no air in the room at all. "Let's," he agrees.

He's all sinew and grace as he stands, and she opens her arms, welcomes him.

+||+||+

 

He wakes up first, but she's never been a heavy sleeper, and she stirs when she feels him moving. She wonders whether her roommates came home last night, and if so who, and when.

Sam seems to be thinking along similar lines. "I'm not sure whether I should go back to the motel to meet Dean, or whether I'd see something that would scar me for life."

He wanders around her room, actually looking this time. She stays in bed, sitting up against the headboard, languorous among the pillows, feeling sated and contented and a little sore in the best way.

"I didn't know Amy Tan had a new book," he says, taking out _Saving Fish from Drowning_.

"It's not that new," Marie says. "It came out a while ago."

The expression on his face is wistful and a little bitter, and quickly masked. "I haven't really been able to follow books lately. I really liked _The Joy Luck Club_, though—I had to read it for one of my classes in college, but I wound up really enjoying it, and reading everything else she'd written. Even though"—his mouth quirks—"I got made fun of for reading chick books."

"I don't actually think I've met any other men who like Amy Tan," Marie has to admit.

"Well, Dean always calls me a girl. Maybe there's something to it."

Marie laughs and looks deliberately at Sam's gloriously naked and very male body. "You don't look like any girl I've ever seen."

"That's good to know," he says, and flashes her that grin again. His eyes pass over the pictures on her dresser, and he says, "Can I?"

"Sure," she says, and he picks up the one of her with her parents. They're back in touch now, tentatively, and this photograph from their recent visit, of the three of them smiling at the Botanical Gardens, betrays nothing of the fact that their daughter was once a prodigal and a mutant.

"Your parents?" he asks.

She nods. "They live in Mississippi."

He moves on: Marie with her roommates at the Euclid Avenue Yacht Club (a bar, and about the furthest thing imaginable from an actual yacht club), on Kathryn's last birthday; Kerry and Emily finishing the Peachtree Road Race; Marie's kickball team in Piedmont Park, after winning the local championship. Sam's eyes obviously land on Logan's dog tags, lying towards the back of the bureau's top, but he doesn't touch them or ask about them. And, oh, the picture of Scott and Jean, smiling, sitting arm-in-arm on the mansion's back steps. And the one of Marie, Bobby, and John, in the gardens in the mansion's front courtyard, before the world went crazy. Well, crazier. These things are relative measurements.

"I'm not even going to ask about that hat your friend Kathryn's wearing," he says.

"It was her birthday," Marie says. "I think Emily found the hat. I have no idea where. I don't think I want to know where."

Sam smiles, then says, "More friends of yours?" and nods towards the pictures of Scott and Jean, and of Bobby and John.

"Yes," Marie says, pauses, and adds, "Once. Scott and Jean are dead. In...an accident. And Bobby and John and I don't really talk anymore."

"I'm sorry," Sam says. "I didn't mean to—"

She shakes her head. "I said you could look at them. And I'm the one with pictures of dead people and people that I don't speak to."

"Just because they're not in your life right now, doesn't mean they don't still have meaning to you." Then he looks again at the picture of Marie, Bobby, and John. His eyes narrow, and he says slowly, "That's the Xavier Institute."

She no longer has any powers. He's a lot bigger than she is.

She still knows how to fight, if it comes down to that.

"Yes," she says.

"It's next to impossible to get on those grounds," he says. "It was difficult before Professor Xavier's death, and I hear the security's been locked down even tighter since then."

She doesn't respond.

"You took the cure," he says. The words could be accusing, but his voice is as gentle in her ears as his hands and mouth were on her skin.

She still doesn't respond.

"You live with civilians," he says. "You have a nine-to-five job in the mayor's office. Either you're covering up what you are, or you left it behind."

"How do you know about the mansion?" she asks.

"I'm not a Paramount location scout."

Well, that explains the face he made.

"Neither is Dean," Sam goes on. "Our job...we're more interested in the supernatural than the superhuman, but we keep an eye on Magneto and his gang—I'm sure you can understand why."

There's a silence.

"I left it behind," Marie says. "Bobby—the blond one in the middle—never forgave me. All I wanted was to be able to touch people without killing them."

"Your long story," Sam says. "That's pretty long."

"Yeah," Marie says. "And pretty crappy and inconvenient, as mutations go. Bobby could turn things to ice. John could light them on fire. And Warren could **fly**. Me? I was the Untouchable Virgin of Salem Center." She adds, "I didn't think it changed who I was, really. I just thought it would make my life better. Easier. But a lot of people didn't see it that way. Like I'd betrayed them, but I never meant to. So I'm here in Atlanta, living like a normal."

He crosses the room in two long steps and wraps his arms around her. "You didn't do anything wrong," he says. "Whether you did the right thing is a question only you can answer."

Over the past months, she's gotten accustomed and reaccustomed to some sorts of touch—hugs from friends and occasionally her parents, kisses on the cheek from her roommates. This is different, though, warm and intense and enveloping, and it's something she'd never have known if she hadn't taken the cure—and something Bobby didn't want to give her, after she did.

"How do you feel about breakfast?" she asks.

"I would love some breakfast," Sam says.

+||+||+

 

They're finishing their eggs and talking about nothing serious when her roommates come back. All three of them. Simultaneously. Looking decidedly disheveled.

Sam buries his head in his hands.

Kathryn, Kerry, and Emily flee upstairs.

Marie starts to laugh; she can't help it. Sam looks at her balefully, but can't sustain the glare. He sighs. "I guess I should be getting back, then. Dean'll want to be on the road pretty soon now that he's...done."

"At least they seem to have had a good time?" Marie ventures.

"I'm not sure that's comforting," Sam replies, but he looks amused despite himself.

He helps clean up; then Marie says, "Wait here for a moment," and goes upstairs. Somebody's in the shower; all the bedroom doors are closed. She imagines they'll open quickly enough after Sam leaves; she can't imagine that her roommates will spare her any details. She goes into her room and finds what she's looking for, then goes back down to where Sam's waiting at the kitchen table.

She hands him her copy of _Saving Fish from Drowning_.

"I can't," he says softly. "I probably won't be able to return it."

"It doesn't matter," she tells him. "I can always get it at the library."

"You're sure?" he asks.

She kisses him. "I'm sure."

+||+||+

 

What with extensive debriefings from her roommates—and then, of course, the report they demand from her—it's not until that evening that she has time to sit down in front of her computer and check her email. There's the usual spam; a forward from her mother; a birthday party invitation from a work friend. Nothing out of the ordinary.

She doesn't know whether he'll answer, but, she thinks, it's high time she tried. She clicks "Compose Mail," then starts typing.

> _Dear Logan,_

I hope everything is OK with you. I don't know whether you've heard, but I'm living in Atlanta now....


End file.
